


The Labyrinth

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Greekish mythish, Minotaur - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 23:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11115345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Everyone has a day that they die. Today is Constance's.





	The Labyrinth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> WARNINGS: Athos is in chains at one point

CHAPTER ONE: THE WARRIOR 

The shush shush of Constance’s dress on the great stone floor echos in the empty room, the length and breadth supported by pillars that she walks between without pause for shadow, ignoring the guards who stand vigilant and silent in the depths. She is the only bright colour in the room, the only movement, the only sound, until she reaches the far doors. The guards move quietly to open the double doors, heavy with creaks, and she disappears into the throne room, the doors close behind her, and silence is absolute. Until she exits again and retraces her steps, nothing about her faltering, the exact same stance and stride, her head held just as high, no higher no lower. The guards watch her this time, their armour shifts with her dress, their unspoken questions loud in her ears as she beats a dignified retreat to her quarters. Her women are waiting for her and then her attendance is needed at the afternoon meal in the eating hall and then she must meet the warriors who have come to fight the minotaur and then she is with her women again and then there is a scented bath and night-time rituals. Finally, after hours and hours, she is alone. She sinks onto her bed and rests her head in her hands. There’s a grunt outside her window and she wearily lifts the sword from under her bed, pretty certain she knows who her night-time guest is but taking no chances. 

 

d’Artagnan climbs over the sill with a clumsy fumble and rolls onto the floor, leaping to his feet and grinning at her, bare-foot, half naked, sweaty and bronzed from the sun, hair long and a little wild about his face. Constance snorts and drops her swords, sprawls onto her bed, and invites the training warrior to lie beside her. He does so without hesitation, not caring that she is the daughter of his king, uncaring of either of their statuses. She likes that about him. d’Artagnan crosses his ankles and hums, grinning at her now and then, playing some fight scene in his head for his own entertainment until she decides to talk to him. Her women are sleeping far enough away to miss the quiet whispers, close enough that a shout will bring them. The same with the guards. d’Artagnan knows she’s playing a game of silence and he enjoys it, tingling with the expectation. 

 

“My father has been tricked,” Constance whispers, eventually. “It is my turn. I am the purest in the land.”

 

d’Artagnan is glad of the cushion Constance smacks over his face to muffle his laughter at that. It takes him a minute for the seriousness of the situation to sink through the hilarity. When it does he snaps up to sit, face set in determined anger, hand reaching for the sword he hasn’t brought. He is good at fighting but tends to forget things a lot and he’s clumsy and he gets distracted very easily. It’s how they met; she’d been walking across the courtyard as they ran foot-races and he’d tripped over watching her, she’d laughed at him and he’d challenged her to fight him for his honour. 

 

“I will protect you,” d’Artagnan whispers fiercely. 

 

“I don’t think so,” Constance says. “I have been arguing with my father’s hypocrisy over not including me in the draw every year since I was old enough to understand. This is my chance to serve my people.”

 

d’Artagnan, who has come across her inability to see how much she has to offer thanks to the way her father and brother treat her, doesn’t say anything. Instead his brow furrows with thought and after a moment he perks up. 

 

“I have an idea,” he whispers, scrambling off the bed. “You won’t be sacrificed, I swear to you. I am going to save you.”

 

He hurries to the window and falls back out with a yelp. Constance listens for the less-than-furtive sounds of him rushing back to the barracks, to make sure he’s not actually hurt himself, and then sets about the task of getting some rest. The next two days are repetitions of the days before the Day of the Minotaur every year. Warriors come to offer their services to the king, they are received by the Prince Bonacieux and promised Constance’s hand if they can truly dismiss the brute beneath the palace. Constance does her curtsying and castes them chaste looks full of promise that her brother never correctly decodes. It’s dull work, and the warriors never return. She’s bored out of her mind, only kept awake by d’Artagnan who’s standing guard with other recruits for the army, making faces her, flexing his muscles and generally acting the idiot for her amusement. She’s only just managing to cover a yawn when the last warrior enters, the night before the Day of the Minotaur. She only pays attention because d’Artagnan stops paying attention to her and starts paying attention to the man who enters. He comes and kneels, not to Prince Bonacieux but to  _ her.  _ She and her brother stare at him. 

 

“I am Porthos, son of Marie du Vallon, queen of Carthage,” the man says, in a surprisingly light voice. He’s wide across the shoulders, broad around the chest. 

 

“I am Prince-” Bonacieux begins, but Constance surprises d’Artagnan by speaking. She never interrupts. 

 

“I’ve heard of you,” she says, offering her hand for him to kiss her rings and nudging him to rise when he does. “You are the Porthos, sometimes known as the bull because of your armour. I think perhaps that does you an injustice; I heard about you at Troy, you are a strategist. You worked with Deadalus on our maze, did you not?”

 

“It is a labyrinth,” Porthos says, lips twitching. “I have been informed that the difference is quite pronounced. I merely serve, my lady, the stories you have heard…”

 

“Your glory is not your own?” Constance asks. 

 

d’Artagnan hides a snigger at the flash of affront Porthos hides. He bows and Constance doesn’t hide her laughter. The Prince is looking incensed. d’Artagnan coughs. 

 

“I am here to offer my service,” Porthos recites quickly, turning to Bonacieux. He’s learnt this by rote, knows the words. He should have done this years ago but now is as good a time as any. “I will vanquish the beast that ravages these lands and free the king from the burden of payment.”

 

“You will save my sister?” Bonacieux asks. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, grinning and winking at Constance. “For her hand, in exchange. That’s the deal isn’t it? Carthage needs a new queen, my mother is looking for an heir and I have yet to provide.”

 

“Mercenary,” Bonacieux observes. 

 

“Have any of the others been otherwise?” Constance asks. Her brother gives her a look that promises a night locked away with her father going over protocols. Again. She raises her chin and defies him; if she’s dying tomorrow she’s having her say. “I accept your service, Porthos of Carthage. It is my hand afterall, Jacques.”

 

Bonacieux fumes, but gives a sharp nod before dismissing everyone and stalking out, arm held imperiously until Constance takes it. Once they’re away she gives his cheek a sweet kiss, thanks him for helping her, makes him believe it was all his idea, and sneaks away. d’Artagnan waits till the hall clears then waves Porthos over, clasping his arm and letting Porthos pull him into a hug. Not that he has any choice really, Porthos is strong and big and d’Artagnan though as tall, now, is nowhere near as broad. He thumps against Porthos’s chest, rumbling with welcome laughter, Porthos’s hand in his hair. d’Artagnan’s about to take Porthos to the hall where they can eat, in the barracks, when Constance comes back in and looks around. There’s no one here except them, the guards all went with the Prince and Princess and Constance gave them the slip. She comes over and puts her hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, waiting for an explanation. Porthos settles comfortably, not even slightly intimidated. 

 

“He knows the maze,” d’Artagnan says, looking sheepish. “My father served in the Carthage army, briefly. With Treville.”

 

“Labyrinth,” Porthos corrects, reaching out to ruffle d’Artagnan’s hair. “Watched this one grow up into the gangly youth of today.”

 

“I am not gangly!” d’Artagnan says, ducking away. 

 

Porthos winks at Constance again, big and good natured and warm. Rudely familiar with her. She likes it a lot so she winks back and d’Artagnan laughs. 

 

“Purest maiden in all the land my-” he starts, but Porthos thwacks him around the ear non-too-gently. 

 

“That’s gonna be my wife, shorty,” Porthos says. 

 

“Speaking of,” Constance says, grimacing. “That promise is not binding.”

 

“You’ll come around,” Porthos says, they usually do - he has enough charm to sink a battleship. Constance looks to be a little more work but he’s up for it. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

 

“My father will want you to go today,” Constance says, eyes narrowing. 

 

“Yeah, do all the vanquishing BEFORE the meal enters the- sorry,” d’Artagnan says, catching Constance’s look. 

 

She has to rush off though, the guards and her maids calling for her, and Porthos works something out with the Prince and her father before morning. When the morning feast comes and she is decorated and showered with praise, he is beside her and equally warmly described by the king. Constance finds it highly entertaining to listen to him whispering ‘labyrinth’ under his breath every time someone gets it wrong and between that and d’Artagnan being his usual clumsy self she hardly thinks about dying at all. Until she is lead to the top of the road that leads down to the caves and her father bids her farewell, her brother binds her wrists with rope, and she is left in the care of Porthos. Porthos watches her family leave, faintly incredulous. She is serving her purpose, though. She is doing her duty. Porthos sets his shoulders into a grim line and moves off down the path. He waits until they are out of sight to whistle, calling d’Artagnan out of the bushes. They cut Constance’s bindings and give her a sword, and head down the path shoulder to shoulder. 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO: THE MAZE

 

“It’s not a maze,” Porthos murmurs, tying the end of a dirty ball of red twine around a tree. “It’s a labyrinth. A maze has more than one way in and out, a labyrinth has only one entrance and the exit is the same; a labyrinth is an efficient trap and easy to guard, easy to catch people coming or going. One way in one way out, no escape.”

 

“Whether it’s a maze or a labyrinth I still don’t know how you’re going to get us through,” d’Artagnan grumbles, sharpening his sword and nicking his finger. “Ow.”

 

“Careful with that it might hurt someone,” Porthos says. “Process of elimination. There’s only one way through, therefor if we test each option we’ll reach the middle. That would take years but I know a few tricks about this particular labyrinth so it will only take us days.”

 

“Oh goody,” d’Artagnan says. 

 

Constance ignores their ongoing bickering as they check supplies and decide whether weaponry is strictly necessary. She’s watching the path back the way they came. For the past fifteen minutes there’s been a small figure trudging in their direction, getting clearer and clearer as it gets closer. It’s nearly here. She stands and awaits it, head held high. 

 

“Your majesty,” the figure says, covered in dust, sweeping a deep bow. 

 

“Aramis!” Porthos bellows, pushing rudely past Constance and leaping on the other man, arms around him, toppling them both into the dust. 

 

They roll around for a while, wrestling until Porthos sits proudly astride the other man’s hips, arm raised in victory. Then d’Artagnan piles in too and there’s more tussling until Porthos gets up and drags the other two onto their feet, the three of them laughing and embracing. Constance sighs and waits for an explanation. Porthos takes pity on her and turn, smiling. 

 

“This is Aramis, my companion,” Porthos says. “Bore my shield lots of times. He’s great.”

 

“I suppose you also watched d’Artagnan grow,” Constance says. 

 

“When Porthos let me close,” Aramis says, sidling close to d’Artagnan and wrapping an arm around his waist. Porthos nudges them apart and shoves them towards the supplies. 

 

Constance notes that Porthos weight Aramis down hardly at all, d’Artagnan quiet a lot, herself with nothing. What’s left over he hefts across his shoulders before heading into the cave, laying the twine out behind him. Aramis catches her frowning and grins, settling shoulder to shoulder with her, meandering just a pace slower than Porthos. 

 

“He thinks he’s being clever,” Aramis says, smiling at Porthos’s back. “Fits our luggage to our fighting styles. I never tell him I now have a lot more muscle and can carry the weight AND still be quick and nimble.”

 

“Porthos!” Constance calls, and passes that tidbit on. 

 

After that Aramis carries his fare share and Porthos walks with Aramis keeping a watch on him, leaving d’Artagnan to walk alongside Constance and have his turn at seducing her. He knows Aramis, he knows that’s what he was doing. She might be Porthos’s by law and politics but that is not a matter of the heart and it is her heart d’Artagnan wants. They walk in this formation for hours until Constance tires of d’Artagnan’s charm and walks a little faster, catching up Porthos and taking his arm, pushing Aramis ahead a little and d’Artagnan behind. 

 

“If we are to be married we should know one another,” She says. 

 

“I agree,” Porthos says, smug. 

 

“It is still not a promise, I still say I have choice in the matter,” Constance says. “I am granddaughter of Medea, if you think I am going to be your prize, look her up.”

 

“I know Medea,” Porthos says. “My mother admires her but disapproves. I was only allowed to meet her once.”

 

“She died before I was born,” Constance says, regretfully. 

 

“I was a babe in arms when I met her,” Porthos admits, letting that card go. “I don’t remember it. I’m not going to try and conquer you, Constance. Women have choices, I will respect yours.”

 

“You are a strange man,” Constance mutters, and it makes Porthos laugh uproariously for some reason. “Tell me about yourself. Who am I marrying?”

 

“I thought you’d heard about me?” Porthos says. “What is it you wish to know?”

 

“Are you kind? What do you do when you’re not fighting Trojans or sea monsters or gods?”

 

“I haven’t fought any gods. My mother always told me my father is the God of grain, but I don’t think she’s serious,” Porthos says. 

 

“My father says my mother is a sea-nymph,” Constance says. “I think this is a royal way of excusing indiscretion.”

 

“Are you accusing my mother of infidelity?” Porthos asks, amused and rather charmed by Constance’s complete lack of diplomacy. 

 

“No, no. Not your… no,” Constance says, biting her tongue and cringing until she hears Porthos laughing softly. She thumps his arm and he gives hers a squeeze. 

 

“I think we’ll get along splendidly,” Porthos says. “It’s a political marriage, I don’t expect you to fall in love. We will do something to organise children.”

 

“I volunteer!” Aramis calls from up ahead.

 

“Hey!” d’Artagnan roars, rushing between Porthos and Constance and leaping on Aramis, brandishing his sword. 

 

Aramis stumbles around laughing, trying to escape as d’Artagnan teaches him a lesson in manners. It’s all harmless enough, it ends with only a couple of bruises and a slight cut, and Aramis apologises to Constance which is all to the good and brings peace back among them. 

 

“Should’ve bet on that,” Porthos mutters. “This is a dead end, we need to go back. There are three possibilities.”

 

It is a dead end, up ahead is only solid rock. They retrace their steps until Porthos finds the other passage that might be the correct one. This, too, ends in solid rock and they have to walk twenty minutes back the way they came. Porthos cheers them up by singing. Constance and Aramis and d’Artagnan hang back, trying to escape the out of tune bellows, though Aramis looks pleased and fond even as he covers his ears. Their shared attempts to keep Porthos from ‘cheering them up’ further actually does cheer them up and Porthos drops back to take the rear, smiling secretly to himself, listening to them ahead of him.

 

“Did he actually think that would help?” d’Artagnan whispers. 

 

“That’s his singing?” Constance whispers. “I hope that isn’t a usual evening entertainment. He doesn’t sing at the evening meal does he?”

 

“Isn’t he an oddball?” Aramis whispers. 

 

Porthos runs his fingers over the cave wall, taking advantage of their not paying him the slightest attention. He spools out the twine carefully and lays a trail behind them, obscuring the way for the others. No one will be able to retrace the route to the center, even after having walked it. Not this way. Aramis looks over his shoulder to share his amusement with Porthos and catches him looking thoughtful and a little wistful. Aramis considers dropping back and asking but decides to just watch instead, to see what it’s about. Constance watches slyness flit across Aramis’s eyes and wonders who he is and why he’s with them. d’Artagnan wonders why they’re here at all. 

 

“I think we should stop for a break,” Porthos says softly, noticing the shifting mood. 

 

They have some water and a little bread and olives and sit in a small circle, silence and tension between them. It’s not helped by the dark, they can barely see and as they go further into the maze (labyrinth) it’s getting worse. Daedalus created the effect of going deeper and deeper under the earth, as if miles and miles of rock is above them. The twists and turns of the passages make the claustrophobia worse and there are four of them, none of them small. The air feels thick and hard to breathe. d’Artagnan leaps to his feet and paces restlessly until the others get up, too, and set off again, Porthos in the lead this time. They hit three more dead ends and tempers are frayed, Aramis has noticed a mood in Porthos that makes him angry, feeling as if Porthos is deceiving him, manipulating him somehow. 

 

They’re all stiff with tension, muscles clenched, ready for action when they hear the first muffled roar, feel the first faint vibration of something big. d’Artagnan jerks and nearly slides his sword between Aramis’s ribs and Constance almost bolts. She’s fought before, she’s trained with a sword, she’s done hand to hand with her maids. She knows how to defend herself and she’s been in danger, she’s a princess and people have tried to steal her throne steal her wealth steal  _ her _ . This is different, though. This is her death and it sends a thrum of deep panic through her until her heart is beating like a frantic moth. She’s never felt less brave. She stands her ground and trembles. 

 

“Good,” Porthos murmurs. “That’s it, girl. You’ve got this.”

 

“Do not call me girl,” Constance says, whirling on him, anger snapping out and quenching her fear a little. Porthos quirks a smile, eyes a little distant. Constance relaxes an inch. “Don’t play me like that.”

 

“Didn’t know if you were brave,” Porthos says, looking properly at her. The trembling is still there but her mind’s on other things now. “Standing when you’re afraid, that’s courage.”

 

“Stop being philosophical and let’s keep moving,” Aramis says. 

 

“Thank you,” Constance says, taking Porthos’s arm again as they move forwards. 

 

They hit another wall ahead and d’Artagnan yells in fury, kicking it. He’s still bare-foot and he’s limping as they go on, holding onto Porthos’s shoulder and fuming. Porthos is as calm as he was when they stepped into the tunnel and when Aramis and Constance start up an argument that ends with her giving him a ringing slap across the face Porthos calls another halt, doling out another round of water, this time with oranges. He sits cross-legged in the passageway and closes his eyes, listening. There’s another distant, muffled roar, making d’Artagnan jump. He and Constance sit a little apart and she takes his hand. They rest together like that, taking comfort in each other’s familiarity, in the knowledge that they are both afraid. There’s something reassuring about that. Aramis sits with Porthos. 

 

“You’re lying to me,” Aramis says. 

 

Porthos doesn’t answer and Aramis doesn’t ask any of the questions on his mind. He’s always been Porthos’s shield barer, lower ranking than the great prince of Carthage though Porthos rarely claims the title, usually preferring to go as one of the men, letting others lead, offering expertise and strategy instead of the leadership he takes on at home. Aramis has seen him in Carthage, has seen his grave dignity, his solidity, his reassurance and certainty. He leads by example and with kindness and his people respect and love him as they do his mother. Aramis has been happy to follow where Porthos leads. Now though there is something different about his friend. Porthos opens his eyes and smiles at Aramis. 

 

“Haven’t kissed you in a long time, Aramis,” Porthos says. 

 

“Stop distracting me,” Aramis says. 

 

“I’m not lying to you, I haven’t told you anything,” Porthos points out. “You came by choice.”

 

“You called, I always come,” Aramis says. 

 

“I do not wish it,” Porthos says. 

 

“And yet here we are,” Aramis says. 

 

“It has been a long time since you kissed me, as well,” Porthos says, considering that fact, wondering if there’s anything in it. 

 

Aramis shrugs and gets to his feet, stretching, and they set off again, deeper into the labyrinth. The roars start getting louder and more frequent. It sounds to Aramis like an animal in pain, he’s a hunter he recognises it. It sounds to d’Artagnan like something that wants to eat Constance for dinner and he’s not going to let that happen. He walks ahead of her, shoulders straight, sword out. Porthos takes the back again, running his fingers along the walls, taking them in loops and circling ever closer. He starts to sing again, softly this time, half-humming. It’s gentler and in tune, higher and lighter. Aramis smiles softly and walks with Constance, glad of the look of wonder on her face. The roaring brings vibrations through the earth and Porthos’s soft singing is soon the only sound, the others breathless with apprehension, unwilling to talk. 

 

Porthos takes the lead again and they hit less dead ends for a while. He sets a steady pace and they walk in single file, tiring slowly one by one. First Constance, then d’Artagnan, then Aramis. Eventually Porthos decides it’s evening and they sit down for a meal of meat and fish, fruit and a little wine. Porthos gives them all extra to help them sleep in the dark and sits across the tunnel ahead of them, long legs stretched out, hands loose in his lap. He’s on guard. Constance sits with him. 

 

“No weapons?” She asks. 

 

“I have plenty,” Porthos says. “I left most at your father’s palace, this is a small space I’ll do better with just my hands. I’ll look to your safety, Constance, I won’t let harm come to you.”

 

“I barely know you,” Constance says. “I believe you, though. Why is that?”

 

“I have a wonderful mother,” Porthos says, smiling at the thought of her. 

 

Constance accepts that as an explanation even though it really isn’t. She settles down next to d’Artagnan and they are both soon asleep. Aramis shifts so he can rest against Porthos’s thigh and then he, too, is asleep. Porthos starts the soft singing again, hand against the rough ground, and shuts his eyes to listen to the beast, listen to it’s cries softening as it too falls into rest. He wakes Aramis half way through their rest and sleeps himself, but they let the other two sleep the whole night. They’ll take watches in the future but they are both young and Aramis and Porthos agree without speaking that it will be like this for now. 

 

The second day begins silently, Porthos giving out water and food again and letting them each have a little to wash and refresh themselves. He sets a quicker pace in order to brush off the strangeness of a day without light and they head straight in, missing dead ends until they stop for water. Then they hit four and tension begins to rise again. It’s almost impossible to see now and d’Artagnan lights the first of their limited supply of torches, using a flint and nearly causing Porthos to bring a curse from the God’s down on them with his language, startling him with the light. Constance laughs about that and teases him for a while, lightening her mood and Aramis’s too. They hit a lot of dead ends while she’s doing that and she begins to suspect that Porthos is at least partially doing it on purpose. 

 

The day stretches ahead and behind them in long dark, nothing to mark time passing save their ebbing and waning apprehension, the roars of the beast getting closer or further as they wend their way, the short breaks Porthos calls. Aramis calls for night time to be marked, at the end of the day, cutting Porthos’s route short and sitting down where he is, declaring the day over and done. d’Artagnan and Constance sit too and Aramis uses food from his supplies pack and water from d’Artagnan’s, giving Porthos no choice but to give in. Porthos takes first watch again and wakes Aramis half through and in the morning they set off on their third day. Porthos sings again and takes them in a circling motion, only hitting a few dead ends. The sounds and vibrations are loud now, barely muffled at all, and everyone has their weapons drawn. Aramis is about to call for another night when Porthos stops them. He shows them the end of his twine. 

 

“I know the way from here,” he says. “I go in front. Put those away I don’t want you stabbing me by accident, thanks.”

 

d’Artagnan and Constance obey but Aramis keeps his sword out, drawing a knife as well. He and Porthos face off in silent argument but Aramis wins. Porthos makes him walk behind Constance and d’Artagnan, everyone in single file, but Aramis keeps his weapons out. Porthos walks confidently ahead, leaving d’Artagnan with the torch, uncaring of the darkness. He sings on and on, his voice rising and falling, softening and lightening, higher pitched. It makes Constance feel secure and she nearly misses it when the passage widens. She steps out behind d’Artagnan and sees Porthos, stood stock still, arms loose at his sides, face to face with a monster. 

CHAPTER THREE: THE MINOTAUR

 

d’Artagnan leaps forward, drawing his blade in a swift movement, feet moving in the dance he’s practised over and over. Aramis is at his shoulder and Constance, their blades drawn together, all of them flashing forwards in defence of Porthos. The minotaur reels back and the clank of chains makes Constance pause. The other two are caught by Porthos who twists around to face them, holding each in a big hand, pushing them back away from the creature that is now cowering against the rock. 

 

“I came with you because you asked but I did not come to protect  _ you, _ ” Porthos spits, anger crashing over them. “If you hurt him I will tear you into pieces and send you to Tartarus or bind you to Prometheus’s rock!”

 

He tosses them away and crouches, facing the creature again, humming low in his throat, coaxing. Constance sits beside him and rests a hand on his back. Aramis and d’Artagnan sit against the cave wall, bewildered and knocked about. The creature sits up and crawls toward Porthos again, standing before him once again. Porthos straightens slowly and quiets, standing still as if waiting. 

 

“I named him Athos,” Porthos whispers. “He couldn’t speak for himself and by the time he could he liked he and chose to keep it. He doesn’t eat people, he eats what the women your father thought worthless bring him. There is a way, they know it they have walked it, a path to safety. He is an innocent.”

 

“Why did you bring us here?” Constance asks. 

 

“You are princess and will one day be queen, I will marry you,” Porthos says. “I will return to your father victorious and your hand will be mine. I brought you because I want you to help me. I want you to help me free your brother. Your mother might be a nymph but Jacques’ was not, your father banished her for having relationship with a God in the guise of a bull.”

 

“My brother,” Constance whispers, staring at the animal before her. 

 

Athos, as Porthos named it, has the legs and tail of a bull. He wears a cloth like d’Artagnan’s but his chest is bare, hairy, barely human though his torso seems to be that of a man. From the shoulders he bears the head of a beast, a bull or great monster, horns curling forwards. It looks at her from it’s great dark eyes and she sees none of the dumbness of beasts. There is none of the quiet life of the cow in this monster, none of the animalistic instinct. His eyes are human and they look at her with bright intelligence, and great pain. He lifts his head as she softens and bellows, and she hears it now; hears the pain and fear and suffering. Aramis comes over and stands with Porthos, a hand on his shoulder. 

 

“He is chained,” d’Artagnan says, softly, also getting up. Their weapons are left against the walls. 

 

“I know,” Porthos whispers, eyes filling with tears. 

 

Aramis crouches, hands out to Athos, and examines the chains. They show signs of hacking, of attempted breaking. Porthos, Aramis knows. He knows his friend and his big, soft heart. 

 

“They are forged by the Gods,” Porthos whispers. “He is caught here, I cannot free him.”

 

Aramis straightens again, half a thought of comforting Porthos. They all watch as Porthos steps forward and touches the great hairy face of the minotaur, as he presses his forehead to the high, bony forehead of Athos. 

 

“I’ll help,” Constance says. “He’s my brother?”

 

“In a way. His mother was Jacques’ mother. In all ways that should count,” Porthos says. “He is your family.”

 

“I am sorry,” Constance says. “I didn’t know. He demands a blood sacrifice.”

 

“Your father demands the sacrifice out of fear, he is the one who thinks up stories about Athos eating young maidens. Athos never harmed anyone,” Porthos says. 

 

“How did you find him?” Aramis asks. 

 

“When I helped Deadalus,” Porthos says. “I was only sixteen, Athos was eighteen. He had been kept locked in the palace until then but Bonacieux was growing and the king blamed Athos for what he was doing to his wife. He beat your mother senseless, Athos says. He says that he was a reminder of her infidelity and he came here willingly because he thought it might help, make things better. Your mother came to see him when she was banished, a year after you were born, Constance. She tried to free him, then she fled.”

 

“And you?” Aramis asks. 

 

“I was sixteen and didn’t care about helping to build a maze,” Porthos says. 

 

Athos pushes Porthos away and moves clumsily with a heavy tread to the wall, the rough earth vibrating beneath his steps. His arm moves then he comes back. 

 

“Yes, labyrinth,” Porthos says, laughing. 

 

It’s written on the wall in an uneven scrawl; ‘labyrinth’. 

 

“It’s your fault he’s been correcting everyone?” Constance asks Athos and she’s almost certain that the creature smiles. That Athos smiles. 

 

“Alright I was winding you up,” Porthos grumbles, touching Athos’s hairy face again. “I brought you a new book, a scroll written by a strange man I met who had been on many adventures. I also have a scroll by a mathmatician, you liked the last one.”

 

Athos sits against the wall with his reading material. He runs his fingers over it instead of holding it up to his eyes and Constance moves closer, crouching beside him, and sees that Porthos has painstakingly gone over each word to make the scroll embossed. A script she doesn’t recognise, curling under Athos’s fingers. Her  _ brother _ . She’d known her father wasn’t a good man but to shackle a man down here in the dark and ensure the world feels nothing but terror for him, that’s beyond belief. She sits next to her brother and waits quietly while he stops being afraid of her. When he’s looked over both scrolls she asks him what stories he knows, not sure what to expect. He takes the torch from d’Artagnan, leaning against the other wall with Aramis and Porthos, and sets it carefully between two rocks. The ground there is sand and he takes a stick and makes her a show of pictures and words, building the story of Troy as she’s never heard it before. By the time he reaches the end she loves him; her brother. She love Jacques, she has no choice even if he is a worm. But Athos is gentle and warm and tells her stories and kneels with her eagerly to share things in a way Jacques never cared to. 

 

“I’ll marry her,” Porthos says. “And then I’ll keep the promise I made when we were young.”

 

He sits with Athos and Athos makes quick signs in the sand that Constance can’t follow, Porthos laughing and translating sometimes, sometimes just replying. They get out the remainder of their food and Constance worries about that and their last torch until Porthos admits once again that there is a quick way in and out. That he knows, anyhow, the route and can walk it in the dark. Aramis isn’t happy that they’ve been lead in circles for days but Athos shuffles backwards and Aramis subsides, sadness filling him. He apologises and Athos joins them again. Constance notices that there’s a sign that comes up repeated over and over that Porthos never replies to or translates. She watches, working it out. 

 

“How will my marrying you break these chains?” Constance asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Porthos admits, lowering his head. 

 

“Then we will appease the Gods and they will break the chains,” Constance says, confident it will work. “We can do it now. Who made them?”

 

“Hephaestus,” Porthos says. 

 

“I am a princess and as such have little to do with myself,” Constance says. “I bound myself to Athena, but I know a little of the other Gods. I need water, fresh harvest, something that is, or has recently been, alive, and something to burn.”

 

Porthos finds water and some apricots in his pack and roots through Aramis’s for and entire chicken that Aramis squawks at, having not noticed it and not being happy having carried it. It’s wrapped in cloth so Porthos can’t understand the fuss, he ignores it. 

 

“That meat with the herbs,” d’Artagnan says. “We ate it last night, is there some left? The oil will burn. It was seasoned with rosemary.”

 

Porthos scrambles until he finds it. Constance sets the water in a dip in the rock, the oily meat in another, the apricots in a third. She kneels in the midst of them and lights the oil then calls first Athena, the words familiar, then Hephaestus, the words less familiar and half made up. She holds the knife over her head as the words fall from her and then she calls for Porthos to hum to keep ill omens away with music. Porthos’s soft, light voice is joined by the deep rumble of Athos, a keening sound that weaves with the music. Constance cuts the chicken open and bares its entrails to the Gods. 

 

“It looks like a good omen,” Constance says, not wholly sure. 

 

“Is that it?” d’Artagnan asks. 

 

Porthos and Athos are still humming, hand entwined. Aramis moves around them and kneels as the last of the blood seeps from the chicken and the oily meat sputters out. He uses his knife and a rock, digging the sharp end of the blade into the earth in the centre of a chain link. He uses the rock to strike the top of the knife, once, twice, in time with the humming. There’s a sudden hush as the chain groans under the widening blade of the knife. Aramis strikes again and the link weakens. Whether by age or the prayer Constance sent up Aramis doesn’t know but he takes the good fortune and finds a stone to wedge in with the knife, thicker than the blade and more sturdy. He strikes this instead, over and over, breath coming harder as he uses his strength. He’s about to give in when the link creaks and then shatters. 

 

They sit silent, staring at the chain. Aramis gets to work on another link and the others quickly scramble to help. Soon Athos is released, though they can as yet do nothing about the thick metal around his ankles. They will need a blacksmith for those and they cannot bring anyone here. It is a secret they must keep. A secret that they will each willingly keep until they day they bring Athos up out of the dark. A day they all silently promise will come. 

CHAPTER FOUR: DEATH

 

Two years after Porthos of Carthage saves Constance from the minotaur Prince Bonacieux is killed in battle, and two months beyond that the King names Porthos his successor on his deathbed. They are given funerals of state and mourned for three months and three days, Constance going in funeral garb and letting her husband rule, as is right. The people love their princess though and as soon as the period of mourning is over they call for her to be named queen, which Porthos gladly does, giving her his throne without a qualm. Very few know or care that the plan all along was for Constance to rule, here an in Carthage. Porthos enjoys his adventuring far too much to be a full-time king, as he tells d’Artagnan and Aramis. All of them spend a lot of the two years down in the maze with Athos, being corrected over and over until they all call it a maze through stubbornness. Only in Athos’s presence, though. Anyone else calls it a maze they get corrected. The first thing Constance does as queen is stop the sacrifices and the people watch in trembling terror as nothing happens. The second year they are less afraid and in the third when Constance brings Athos to court and tells the people he has been living in the palace for the last two years they accept it and bow to him, their prince. 

 

 

 


End file.
